


What Ifs

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Sickfic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: In which, after the events of “The Deadly Quest Affair,” Napoleon can’t help but think of “what ifs” as Illya tends to his illness.





	

Recovering at home was always more enjoyable than recovering in Medical—assuming one could call recovery “enjoyable” at all. Still, he was grateful to be at home with Illya in their apartment—especially since he had nearly lost him.

Napoleon shuddered, and it wasn’t because of the fever; more than once in the last 24 hours, the thought had haunted him—what if he had been too late? He knew that, as an agent, it was pointless to dwell on the “what ifs,” but his fevered mind seemed to want to do little else but drive him crazy with that one persistent thought.

The door to the bedroom opened now, and Illya walked in with Napoleon’s silver serving tray. He seemed to have an array of things on it—thermometer, bandages, medicine, cold cloth, washcloth, a bowl of water, and what looked like a bowl of soup. Illya placed the tray on the bedside stand and proceeded to take Napoleon’s bandaged arm, undo the bandages, and began to clean the claw marks with the washcloth.

“You’re quiet,” Napoleon said. “Even the Medical staff are chattier than you.”

“What is there to say?” Illya asked, quietly. “No amount of thanks will be enough. You saved me from Karmak—and now you have these wounds to show for it. And if that was not enough, you have also received my infection.”

Napoleon gave him a wan smile.

“I don’t regret either of those things,” he said. “Seeing you back here is worth it.”

“I hope you will still think so after I apply the antiseptic on your wounds.”

Napoleon did, able to withstand the sting of the antiseptic even in his weakened state—or perhaps because of it.

“So, what’s my prognosis?” he asked, managing another smile.

“You’ll live,” Illya declared.

 _And so will you_ , Napoleon silently added. He shuddered again as the mental image of Illya in that glass chamber returned.

“…Napoleon?”

“Hmm? Oh, I… still have those chills.”

“Then take your medicine and rest,” Illya said, handing Napoleon two pills and a glass of water. He watched to make sure that his partner took the medicine and drank his water, and Illya then put the glass aside.

“Satisfied?” Napoleon asked.

“Almost,” Illya said. “Now, take some soup.”

Napoleon groaned.

“Not hungry. Haven’t you heard of ‘Feed a cold, starve a fever?’”

“ _Da_ , but there is no medical basis for that whatsoever.” Illya smirked. “Still think it’s worth seeing me back?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said, emphatically.

Illya glanced at him fondly.

“Those chills weren’t from your fever,” he surmised.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” Napoleon said, and he fell silent as Illya stuck the thermometer in his mouth.

“I know, Napoleon, I know…” Illya sighed. He pondered for a few minutes. “You would think that after we have helped each other cheat death so many times before, we would get used to it—or, at least, not be as affected by the near misses. But it never works out that way, does it? I was worried for you, too, when I saw Karmak behind you; I was certain that he would kill you—that you would meet your death trying to save me…”

“But I didn’t,” Napoleon said, taking the thermometer out of his mouth.

“Very true—you did not die. And neither did I. Saying it changes very little, I know, but even a little, in our profession, is significant.” He looked at the thermometer’s reading. “Well, your fever has reduced; it’s not gone, but it has definitely gone down.”

“Oh, good.”

“I do wish you would eat some of that soup. Well, perhaps I’ll leave it here and you can have it if you get hungry later.”

Illya got up to go, and Napoleon blinked.

“Where’re you going?”

“I need to clean up the kitchen.”

“Oh, that’ll keep,” Napoleon said, waving his hand. “Stay here and talk with me; I’m bored out of my mind.”

“You _should_ be resting,” Illya reminded him. But the chiding was only half-hearted, for he knew the reason why Napoleon wanted him there. “Very well. You rest; I will do the talking.”

Napoleon was more than content with that arrangement, and he relaxed back on his pillow as his partner relayed stories from the time before they had met.


End file.
